


A Good Old-Fashioned Murder

by Pebblish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pebblish/pseuds/Pebblish
Summary: Sherlock and John are recruited by Scotland Yard yet again to solve a string of missing persons cases, each of the victims being high-profile CEOs, all vanishing, leaving no traces behind. It's up to Sherlock to solve the case, but when dead end after dead end come up, Sherlock begins to lose heart. But then, a witness comes forward with disconcerting evidence. 
Will Sherlock crack the case? Or will he have to throw in the towel and admit defeat? But in the end, who doesn't love a good old-fashioned murder?





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock scrolled lazily through his flooded inbox, his eyes darting across the computer screen.

 

“Any new cases?”

 

John asked, sitting in his armchair, sipping a cup of tea.

 

Sherlock huffed in exasperation.

 

“Of course there are new cases. But they’re all so _dull.”_

 

Sherlock slammed the laptop closed, barely controlling his anger.

 

“Ah, right.” John said calmly, setting his teacup back in its saucer. “You want a serial killer to ravage London. I forgot.”

 

Sherlock turned in his seat to stare at John in annoyance.

 

“Of course. Is that really too much to ask for?”

 

John sighed, and crossed one leg over the other.

 

“No, Sherlock. It’s not too much to ask for.”

 

xxx

 

 

John turned to Lestrade, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

 

“You’re saying that they just _vanished?”_

 

Lestrade nodded, shoving his hands into his trench coat pockets. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he hadn’t seen a bed in days.

 

“Up and vanished, without a trace. We’re looking into family history and their finances but-”

 

“No need.”

 

Sherlock interrupted, striding over to where Lestrade and John were standing.

 

“They were being targeted remotely. It doesn’t seem like the work of a family member. And they were millionaires, so why look into their finances?”

 

Sherlock pulled out a cigarette, and looked between Lestrade and John.

 

“Well, don’t one of you have a lighter?”

 

John wrestled the cigarette out of Sherlock’s long, bony fingers, and walked over to the bin under Lestrade’s desk. He tossed the cigarette in, ignoring Sherlock’s protests.

 

Lestrade fixed Sherlock with a look of confusion on his face.

 

“You got all that information just from seeing pictures of the victims and pictures of their offices?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Detective Inspector, why would you call me here if I wasn’t up to snuff? If Scotland Yard wasn’t so useless…”

 

Sherlock’s voice trailed off at a venomous look from John, and Sherlock clasped both hands together in restrained excitement.

 

“What is it, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

 

Sherlock breathed deeply, his eyes alight with excitement.

 

“Oh, can’t you see? It’s finally something interesting! Maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll turn into a string of serial murders.”

 

Lestrade swallowed uncomfortably, sharing a look with John.

 

John cleared his throat and started to usher Sherlock out of Lestrade’s office.

 

“Come on Sherlock, you’re going to miss your programs,”

 

“That’s ridiculous, John. I recorded all of my programs. You honestly think I’m stupid enough-”

 

“Yes, yes, well I want to get back to the flat. We need to leave Lestrade to do his work.”

 

Sherlock cast John a skeptical look, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Nonsense. What work could Lestrade possibly have? We’re probably a blessing for him, considering how boring and slow Scotland Yard is.”

 

He continued to elaborate the point as John guided him towards the elevator. They waited, Sherlock bouncing on the balls of his feet, John staring at the gleaming silver of the elevator doors.

 

When the silver doors slid open, they stepped inside, standing close together with their shoulders brushing. If Sherlock had taken a minute to collect himself, he would have relished the rare closeness between the two of them, the sound of John’s breathing, and the rapidity of his own beating heart. As it was, Sherlock was so taken with the idea of a new case that these thoughts seemed insignificant.

 

“You know what, John?”

 

He said, breaking the silence that lay between them.

 

“What, Sherlock?” John asked absentmindedly.

 

“The game, dear John, is on.”

 

“Of course it is, Sherlock.” John mumbled, as the elevator started to descend.


	2. Part Two

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of fresh coffee in front of him. Sherlock was completely still, as if he had gone into a trance. Only the faintest rise and fall of his chest showed any sign of life. Sherlock had his hands pressed together, resting under his chin. He was reclining in his favorite armchair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He had been like that for at least an hour, and John couldn’t fathom what Sherlock was thinking. He could never quite fathom what Sherlock had running around in his head all day. 

 

John took a sip of his coffee, and stiffened in his seat at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He stood up from the table, pushing his chair roughly out of the way. The person who entered was only Mrs. Hudson, who shuffled into the kitchen, carrying a tray of biscuits. She smiled warmly at John, and set the tray gently on the kitchen table.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m a little worried. He’s been like this for a while, and he just got what he considers an interesting case, which he seemed ecstatic about. Should I be worried?” 

 

John spoke conspiratorially to Mrs. Hudson, leaning over to whisper into her ear as she stood beside him. Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder reassuringly, as she gazed across the room at Sherlock’s prone form.

 

“Don’t worry dear, he always gets like this. Sometimes he gets a little too excited and he has to reign it all in. He’ll be up and about in no time, I promise you.”

 

She bustled around the table, and started gathering plates to set the biscuits on. When she had prepared two plates heaped with biscuits, she straightened up to admire her handiwork. She looked at John sternly, and pointed at him with her finger.

 

“Now John, I’ve just made these biscuits, so I don’t want them getting cold. You’ll eat them, won’t you?”

 

After assuring Mrs. Hudson that he would, in fact, eat the biscuits did she leave the flat, murmuring about watching her beauty programs on the telly.

 

It was only when John had set the marmalade on the table and started to spread it on his biscuits that Sherlock finally stirred, pulling himself up from the slump he had been in before. Sherlock looked around in faint confusion for a few moments, his pale green eyes scanning the flat, before he met John’s eyes.

 

“Was Mrs. Hudson just here?”

 

Sherlock struggled to his feet, and plodded over to the table. John watched his movements, making note of his sleepy stupor. 

 

“You just missed her. Did you need her for something?”

 

Sherlock pulled up a chair and collapsed into it, before pulling his plate of biscuits towards him.

 

“I needed to tell her that I’ll be borrowing her refrigerator for a few experiments. I’m testing the coagulation of blood after extensive periods of time in a cold environment. I have a few limbs and one head that I need to stuff in her refrigerator.”

 

Sherlock met John’s eyes for a few seconds, before stuffing a biscuit into his mouth.

 

“Something wrong, John?”

 

John shook his head in exasperation. 

 

“Mrs. Hudson won’t let you keep body parts in her fridge. She just won’t.”

 

Sherlock stared at him.

 

“And why do you say that?”

 

John grabbed another biscuit, and spread the marmalade carefully over the flaky surface.

 

“Sherlock, some people don’t want to keep parts of a dead person in their homes. Even if it’s for science.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Honestly, John. The body parts aren’t all going to be from the same person. And most people will do things for the progress of modern science.”

 

John ate his prepared biscuit, and rubbed his hands together to get off any residual crumbs. 

 

“Whatever, Sherlock.”

 

He stood up, and carried his plate to the sink. He had just finished rinsing off his plate and putting it aside to dry when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. 

 

“It’s probably from Lestrade,” Sherlock announced, his eyes still fixed on his plate of biscuits. 

 

“No, you’re wrong. It’s from your brother.”

 

Sherlock whipped around in his seat to stare at John.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock growled. John nodded.

 

“It seems England needs us.”

 

John pressed the phone to his ear, before speaking.

 

“Hello, Mycroft.” He said grimly.

 

xxx

 

The luxury car raced down the street, as John stared out the tinted windows. Sherlock was reclining beside him, looking like a cat, with his eyes half-lidded.

 

“What do you think he wants now?”

 

John had been turning the question over in his head for at least fifteen minutes, from when they had left 221b Baker Street to see the black car waiting for them.

 

Sherlock grunted.

 

“Maybe Mycroft lost in a poker match and gambled away the country’s secrets. Maybe Mother finally found out that he smokes.”

 

John laughed. 

 

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s that.”

 

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, to see Sherlock press a hand over his eyes.

 

“I just want to work on that damn case. Can’t my brother leave me alone for once so I can get my work done?” Sherlock muttered something else that sounded like manipulative bastard, but John wasn’t sure.

 

“Your brother cares about you. That’s a good thing.”

 

Sherlock groaned.

 

“You don’t understand, John. Mycroft’s involvement in my cases usually means they’re a huge mess, that he leaves for me to clean up. It takes all the excitement out of the work, and it becomes tedious.”

 

John looked out the window again to see the buildings blur as the car drove.

 

“Well, there’s one thing you might like about Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

“And what’s that, John?”

 

John watched the rain pouring outside streak down the window.

 

“The cases we get from him are never boring.”

 

Sherlock grunted in agreement.

 

“I suppose that’s true.”

 

Before long, the car came to a smooth stop. Sherlock was already getting restless, and John was feeling cramped. The driver came around and opened John’s door, holding it open for him. John dipped his head in acknowledgment to the driver, and stopped to wait for Sherlock. Sherlock scrambled out of the car, and dusted off his coat, before scanning his surroundings critically. 

 

“I see Mycroft thinks he's clever, doesn't he?” 

 

Sherlock turned to watch the driver. 

 

“Dragging us out into the country to a nondescript warehouse?”

 

The driver was silent, and instead started walking towards the desolate warehouse looming in front of them. Sherlock started following immediately, walking briskly. John hurried to keep up. 

 

“I think our driver isn't too fond of words.”

 

John stated, keeping his voice low so the driver wouldn't hear. Sherlock kept walking, his eyes glinting.

 

“He's Mycroft's assistant. You can tell from the slight crease of his pants and suit jacket that he sits at a desk all day. His hands curl naturally, indicating his long time spent typing at a computer. And the slight smell of pine, that's Mycroft’s favorite cologne, with only one hundred bottles ever made,”

 

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, to enjoy his amazed expression. It was one of the many things he enjoyed about having John around. 

 

“But what is really interesting, is that Mycroft didn't have a special driver come and pick us up. I'm thinking he's in some kind of trouble.”

 

John checked his phone, then slid it back in his coat pocket. 

 

“Well, I guess we'll find out.”

 

“Yes. Yes we will.”

 

And Sherlock couldn't hide the slight hint of eagerness at the prospect of Mycroft in trouble. 

 

xxx

 

As they walked through the abandoned warehouse, John watched Sherlock walk in front of him. Sherlock kept turning his head to gaze at things as they passed, his head constantly swiveling. There were steel beams piled haphazardly around them, and obscene language painted on the walls in bright green spray paint. A few times, John thought he could hear the faint scurrying of mice, but he saw nothing in the half darkness. The lights that hung high above them were lost to view, the only light coming from the huge doors that opened to the outside. 

 

“Mycroft has sunk low, if we have to meet in a place like this.”

 

Sherlock commented lazily. John looked around cautiously as they moved through a doorway, that led into a small room, with a single chair placed in the center of the space. 

 

A man sat on the chair, his legs crossed, his eyes closed. There was a smug smile on the man's face.

 

When Sherlock stopped in front of Mycroft, Mycroft spoke. 

 

“Hello, dear brother. It's been too long.”


End file.
